Ulysses' gloved fingers traced the neatly arranged rows of blades and various instruments that lined the smooth metallic table in the corner of the cell. His mouth curved into a dark smile under the protection of his metallic mask, as some of the more favorable memories returned to mind, memories of the times when he was called down into the dungeons of the headquarters, to dig the information out of unwilling Templars, after he had built the Valencian Branch. It was those times that had earned him the infamous name of "The Interrogator" among the enemies of the Order.
This was no different from those times.
Selecting one of the scalpel blades, the Armada Commodore's gaze fell upon the chained form of the witchdoctor, his smile widening. He had nearly forgotten how it felt like, tormenting those who had named themselves enemies, those filth who doesn't even deserve to walk the Spiral. They never deserved it, ever since the moment they had pitted themselves against Supreme Commander Kane, just like his father.
Ulysses crossed the cell in three strides, pinching his prisoner's chin with the thumb and index finger of his left hand and forcing him to look up at him, the bloody orbs that were his eyes locking into Cyrus' own. "I would have said what you've attempted was noble, pirate, had you been a different profession." Indeed, the Armada Commodore would have acknowledged the chivalry and courage that fueled such an action, had it been anyone else: with criminals such as pirates, he found no reason to see it, not when those criminals have no honor and refused to remember it themselves.
Letting the silence hang for a moment, Ulysses continued, "Now, I might be able to spare you some pain, if you do decide to cooperate with me, of course, by giving me what I want." His black gloved hand traveled to the witchdoctor's throat, his grip tightening just enough to cause a bit of pain.
"Where is Devereaux's next destination?"
"Burn in hell, Armada lapdog."
The Armada Commodore felt his own two eyes narrow. "Stubborn fool, perhaps you need a little reminder who is really in control." Bringing the blade up to Cyrus' arm, all it took was one flick of his wrist to cut the sleeve open, laying bare his flesh; digging his blade into it with surgical precision, Ulysses had cleanly sliced off a chunk of flesh the size of his index finger.
Blood instantly poured from the wound, ripping a howl of agony from the pirate's mouth as each drop of ruby red shattered into a thousand others on the floor of the cell: to enjoy inflicting pain onto others, at least within Septimus' eyes, was different from savoring the blood upon one's blade, particularly a parent's blood... strange how he felt nothing about that now, of Lucius' murder and him using his own cousin as a scapegoat.
Ah, what are you doing drifting off in memory? Focus on the work at hand perhaps, Ulysses.
The Armada Commodore's gaze locked onto his prisoner's face.
"Now, Chamberlain, will you cooperate? His Majesty is very tolerant of those who... are willing to turn away from your path of piracy, you know."
Though the eyes that locked into his own held defiance, Ulysses noted the subtle cues of fear within the witchdoctor's body language, how the vein in his neck pulsated with irregularity, wildly, and the tiny tremors that ran through his whole form.
I'll have to give you some credit, pirate, there is very few who could remain so stubborn in face of what I have prepared.
A whistling sigh escaped Septimus' lips. "You still require a little more convincing? Very well, then." Not that he is complaining, however: to speak the truth, Ulysses quite enjoyed digging information out of unwilling prisoners, relishing their screams of pain, them begging for mercy like the pathetic little maggots they are, daring to fight against truth and justice to cause anarchy.
Flicking the blood off, the Commodore placed the blade against the crook of Cyrus' arm, pressing it down until a fresh stream of that ruby red was drawn, dousing his uniform sleeve cuff and turning the fabric maroon: turning the blade until a cresent shaped piece of it was removed. Never once did Ulysses remove his eyes from the face of his prisoner in the process, who was surprisingly silent this time, though Septimus noted the thin stream of blood that had trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Biting your own flesh to hold back a scream? What a fool...
Chuckling, Ulysses used the bloodied blade to trace the outline of the witchdoctor's face. "Bravery at the right times can earn you fame, but stubborn bravery such as this, at the current moment, harvests naught but pain for you pirate." To underline his word, the Armada Commodore sharply pivoted on his heel, placing the blade in his hand back among the nmerous others on the metal table; selecting a red hot brand from the burning cauldron next to the table.
Now this has to be one of his absolute favorite methods.
Turning back toward his prisoner, the Armada Commodore's gloved fingers curled around the witchdoctor's hair, forcefully turning his head toward the side to better expose his cheek, as he shoved the burning hot brand - shaped to resemble the letter "P"- onto his flesh... Cyrus screaming the whole way as the red - hot metal ate away at his flesh, filling the air with the smell of burnt skin even after Ulysses ripped the brand off, leaving a bloody print of burnt and bleeding and dead skin.
Another series of chuckles escaped Septimus' mouth. "Now that looks much better." Thrusting the brand back inside its cauldron to prepare for its next usage, Ulysses twisted his prisoner's face until their eyes locked once more.
"Where is Devereaux's next destination?" Was that really him talking? His voice was... snake - like, so unlike him.
"Never..." Cyrus croaked out. "Damn you..."
Resisting the urge to throw his head back and laugh at his foolishness, the Armada Commodore snapped his fingers to summon two dragoons into the cell, after clearing off the metallic table in the cell. "Chain the prisoner down on there... Captain Optimus!"
"You have called me, Lord?"
Sentus Optimus, ever so the loyal soldier he was, emerged from the shadows as though they had solidified into him.
"Indeed, come, come..."
Once the marine was right next to him, Ulysses made a sweeping motion toward the chained down witchdoctor, and the single blade he had left alone on the table. "Sever the Achilles' tendon on his right foot, but make sure it is done... slowly."
"Immediately, Commodore." Perhaps it was the clockwork parts that was ingrained into him, Sentus Optimus' response was cold, organized the way any clockwork marine's voice might have. Even his actions were robotic, laying his weapons down as he stiffly marched toward the imprisoned witchdoctor.
"Wolf, please..." In that moment, it was almost impossible to bite back the sadistic laughter that was threatening to push its way out of his throat; it was only at the very last second did the Armada Commodore choke it back. "Please... why are you listening to him?"
"Silence." The marine's word was without emotion, without pity, void of any emotion that marked his previous humanity. "My designation is Sentus Optimus, pirate, Wolf Hawkins is dead."
Ulysses didn't see the rest of the matters that transpired in the cell, after the marine had spoken. He didn't need to, of course, not when he could clearly hear the bloodcurdling scream, and the wet slide of the blade as it severed the delicate tendon in Cyrus' leg: the smile on his face deepening until it almost appeared as though it stretched from ear to ear.
"It has been done, my Lord Septimus."
Even with his hands encased in black gloves, the clear traces of blood that dotted Sentus' forearm gauntlets were clearly visible; stepping back as the Commodore entered the cell once more.
"You have done well, Captain Optimus, very well... Put him back in the manacles, Militus Terrus and Presidos Betus."
The Commodore hefted another item, this one a whip ending with nine barbed hooks, and small blades attached at even intervals along it once the dragoons had Cyrus back into the chains; it being the only thing holding up the witchdoctor's weight now.
"Have you changed your mind yet?" Ulysses half purred out the words, running his fingers through the nine tails of the whip.
Silence...
Sighing, the Commodore lifted it within his right hand. "Then you have asked for this."
Again and again did he bring it down, watching as hooks ripped their way through flesh, tearing bloody gashes and chunks of it away from Cyrus' back.
"Mercy! Lord Ulysses, mercy!" The Commodore had stopped counting the number of leashes after thirty two; chuckling. He had at last brought this stubborn fool down to where he belonged. "Spare me! I will tell you anything!"
"This didn't have to happen, pirate, had you said that sooner." Ulysses tossed the torturous instrument back onto the table, snapping his fingers for the dragoons to bound him back into the position where the Commodore could lock his bloody red orbs into his eyes. "Now, where is Adrian?"
"Cool Ranch."
Ulysses noted the fatigue, the pain in the witchdoctor's words. "The location of the next map piece, huh? Clever pirate..." Part of him was inclined to laugh, how Devereaux is attempting to obtain a map piece from the Armada, when he only has one other to back him up; it was only the logical part of Ulysses that prevented him from doing so.
The location of the next map piece, though is confirmed in Cool Ranch, has not yet been pinpointed... though if the pirates can seek it out...
His smile deepened. "I thank you for your cooperation, Cyrus Chamberlain, however... I would like to ask one more of you." Leaning in until their noses almost touched, the Commodore breathed out.
"How does fifty thousand pieces of gold and amnesty from His Majesty Kane sound to you?"
Ulysses is having a little too much fun conversing with our "favorite" witchdoctor, it would appear...
Of course, what exactly he is planning will be revealed in the next chapter ;) so check back in soon for chapter 11!
Reviews make me write more and better: I will also welcome any comments on how I can improve!
Until next time my dear readers!
-Hades